Enter the Hole?
by R.S. Valentine
Summary: I'm losing my mind, I guess...Maybe it's not so bad. Going back and forth between my apartment and the Other Place is becoming routine and I've settled into it like someone settles into a new job...Walter/Henry


[Enter the Hole?]

Every time I venture back to what I call the 'Other Place', I have to ask myself: "Should I enter the hole?" Of course, the answer is always yes. What at first was primal fear and loathing has become an inexorable draw toward that Other Place. I have slowly been made aware of the presence of Walter Sullivan, as well. He is still just a name, though there were grisly murders about ten years ago in the Ashfield area perpetrated by a man of the same name. Could they be connected? I guess they probably are one and the same. After all, Walter was never caught, right? Anyway, it seems the fellow who lived in this room before me noticed some of the crazy shit too. I'm guessing _he_ didn't make it out either. My best clue to this is the combination of journal scraps I find when I wake up from my journeys to the Other Place and the note scrawled in blood on my front door which reads "Don't go out!". It's signed, too: Walter. Who is he, really?

So here I am, standing in my own bathroom. On one side is the shower, which looks somewhat inviting after days without. Has it been just days? Sometimes I suspect the Other Place is like Narnia; when I go, not a whole lot of time seems to pass…that is, until the Other Place suffers what I've begun to call Hiccups. That's when the whole place shifts and the dark hole at which I now stare leads someplace utterly in contrast with the previous environment. It's as though the Other Place knows when I've done what I'm supposed to in each of its facets. The hole seems somehow more inviting than the shower. I want to go down and see what's next. I feel a bit like Alice, standing over the Rabbit Hole. Unlike Alice however, I don't have a choice. I have nowhere else to go. At this point, I'm certain I won't be leaving room 302 anytime soon. Will I die with a number carved into _my_ body, too?

I begin to undress. Taking a shower will clear my mind, I hope. If nothing else, it might distract me from that hole. That makes no sense, not even to my fevered brain, but I want this shower. I want it like a crack addict wants his next fix, like a nympho wants his next lay. Worse still is the feeling deep in my gut that I want—need the Other Place more. I turn the water on, half expecting it to be blood or ants or some combination of nasty things. It wouldn't surprise me in the least. So when the water starts running warm and clear, I nearly jump out of my skin. Why is it only normal things scare me anymore? What have I become?

Whatever I might have felt just now melts away as I close the curtain and my eyes. The water is hot but not quite scalding. _Walter, what use could I possibly be to _you_?_ Where'd that thought come from? I don't really care _what_ he wants from me. When I meet him—and I know it's 'when'—I'll kill him. I will kill Walter and end this madness. _But I want my madness, I need it…And I need you._ I don't know why I'm suddenly thinking about a man I've only seen in blurry old news footage. I shake off the odd feelings and glance out of the shower toward the hole. Could he be watching me from in there? Is he laughing at my stupidity? It's obvious he can come and go as he pleases; the chains over my door and all the notes scattered about tell me _that_. So where is this heat coming from?

My body betrays me. It's been a long time since I've jacked off, that's for damn sure. When you're scared shitless for a week or more straight, it takes a lot to get a smile, let alone a boner. What happens next is a natural reaction. I really can't fight it; I don't _want_ to. Grasping myself gently, I slide my hand up, just to savor the feeling. I feel like I'm probably not going to get another one of these the rest of my—most likely short—life. Instinctively, my breath draws in and I begin chewing my lip. My mind wanders as I stroke up and down. Suddenly, my thoughts turn to the near-faceless entity called Walter Sullivan. I have never had a man in my mind when I jacked off, even as a kid. And we all know kids can be curious, right?

Suddenly, I find myself on my knees, stroking harder. I want this, I need this. _I want you, I need you_. But even my mind dreads calling the name. It's as if using his name consciously, to address the entity or a thought of him will bring he of whom one thinks or speaks. I know, that's twisted, but my mind's not all here. I'm panting, arching and moaning, on all fours now. Is it odd I'm not even jerking myself off? Something else is tugging and stroking. It has no form, no tangible existence. All the same, it's fondling my sack, teasing my tip and even probing the rim of my hole. My knees are as far apart as they'll go in the tub as I brace on my elbows, groaning like an animal. I guess I probably look ridiculous, but who's watching?

He's watching. I know he can see me. It is his very will that makes me hot and needy. Wherever he is physically matters nothing in the Other Place, or here in what used to be _my_ apartment. Now this place is only a resting house. The Other Place is where I belong or, if I don't yet, I soon _will_. It is _he_ who tells me this, not with word but action. The stroking is faster and harder, the fondling rougher and the probing much, _much_ deeper. I cry out as the force of his will slams deep inside me. He wants to hear me scream his name. Why didn't I do this sooner?

As I release my hot load, I feel heat _inside_ me as well. How is it so real?

"Walter!"

I am utterly alone as I crawl from my washroom, across the hall, to my bedroom. The sheets are cool and welcoming when I drag myself to them. They seem to tell me everything will be alright when I wake up. I know it will all be the same and that the cool sheets are lying. But I don't care. I'm tired, alright?

[Sleep, my pet. The time has not yet come for complete surrender. What you have felt is but a taste.]


End file.
